


Tale of Ethan

by Dreams_With_Words



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bullying, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Imaginary Friends, Imagination, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 09:12:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10185899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreams_With_Words/pseuds/Dreams_With_Words
Summary: INTRODUCTIONI’m sure many of you reading this have had a dream you wanted to make possible before. If not you’ll most definitely have one by the end of this story. For the story that I am about to share with you is one that I know many of you will be able to relate to. After all, we’re all dreamers who fight for our accomplishments in someway or another.Dreams are one of the many things that keeps us humans motivated to accomplish what we want. Many dream of being a famous singer or actor that performs all over the country for millions upon millions of people. Some dream of gaining fortune, and some dream of pleasing others with their talents such as comedians or dancers. Though there are some dreamers who want things that are more smaller and simpler than others. Such as getting married and raising a family, or becoming the head of a company they’ve worked at for years.No matter how small they’re still dreams nonetheless.However, there are some dreamers who choose to hide away their passions in a stainless steel cage with a complicated lock system. They bluntly proclaim that their talent is only of a minor scale in professionalism, or that they’d never get by in life with it. When complimented they blindly turn it around on themselves making themselves have a negative outlook on their profession. They believe as if no matter how hard they plead to God or how much they work they’ll never achieve it. Even if they're talent is indeed amazing they are blinded by their own insecurities and self doubt.A young boy by the name of Ethan Moore just so happened to be one of those dreamers.





	1. Tuesday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> INTRODUCTION
> 
>  
> 
> I’m sure many of you reading this have had a dream you wanted to make possible before. If not you’ll most definitely have one by the end of this story. For the story that I am about to share with you is one that I know many of you will be able to relate to. After all, we’re all dreamers who fight for our accomplishments in someway or another.
> 
> Dreams are one of the many things that keeps us humans motivated to accomplish what we want. Many dream of being a famous singer or actor that performs all over the country for millions upon millions of people. Some dream of gaining fortune, and some dream of pleasing others with their talents such as comedians or dancers. Though there are some dreamers who want things that are more smaller and simpler than others. Such as getting married and raising a family, or becoming the head of a company they’ve worked at for years.
> 
> No matter how small they’re still dreams nonetheless.
> 
> However, there are some dreamers who choose to hide away their passions in a stainless steel cage with a complicated lock system. They bluntly proclaim that their talent is only of a minor scale in professionalism, or that they’d never get by in life with it. When complimented they blindly turn it around on themselves making themselves have a negative outlook on their profession. They believe as if no matter how hard they plead to God or how much they work they’ll never achieve it. Even if they're talent is indeed amazing they are blinded by their own insecurities and self doubt.
> 
> A young boy by the name of Ethan Moore just so happened to be one of those dreamers.

Ethan sat hunched over in his chair stomach pushed up against the wooden plank of his desk. His glasses were shaded over by the light reflecting off his computer screen and his fingers ran themselves rapid across the keyboard. The sounds of clicking computer keys invaded his ears as the soft rhythmic steps of his words danced their way across the screen.

He paused after a few minutes and hurriedly scanned over the paragraph he had written. Once he was done a small smile formed on his face. The words seem to play together so perfectly in time like the melody of voices in a church choir. It was a song that only he could hear and even he himself was amazed with what he was creating.

The smile on his face quickly faded, however, when he realized he would be the only one to hear his story's melody. Ethan wished so badly to be able share his works with everyone, but the feelings that always bubbled in the pit of his stomach prevented him from doing so. Not to mention how ridiculous it would be to go through with his dream when the people around him would put him down for it day in and day out.

What’s the point in writing about a person’s life when you can watch documentaries?

What’s the point in writing about dragons and witches when you can watch movies or TV shows about it instead?

What’s the point if no one will be able to understand you?

These questions poked at Ethan’s mind like a stick to an angry boar. He knew that the Empty Heads would be able to understand if they took even a minute to think things over. However, he knew that with Empty Heads that would never be a possibility unless they were truly crazier than he thought.

Empty Heads, the people he was surrounded by, all thought him a fool for picking something as tiring and time consuming as writing. Empty Heads saw no pleasure in reading the brilliantly executed horror stories of Stephen King, or taking the time to escape their reality to travel farther away than any country in the world could be. Those people were too caught up in their friends and personal issues to look at the fine print brittle pages of a hardback book; too absorbed with the screens of their phones to even look at the back covers of books for the brief explanation of the story it held within it. Reading paragraphs seemed so bland and boring to them, so redundant and a waste of time that it was actually kind of sad.

That wasn't the case for Ethan, though. Ever since he was a little boy he dreamed of becoming a big time author. Books fascinated him in the same way rap music and celebrities fascinated the Empty Heads.

It all began when he read his very first story book back in grade school. It was a short little book, but it held of lot of dreams he would soon want to be unfolding for himself. The story told of a warrior princess, whom was a character he grew to love and admire, who did not require a man in shinning armor to swoop in and save her from sudden doom. She required no prince upon a groomed, white horse to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset.

She was independent, brave and a truly fascinating creature to behold. It was then Ethan began to read more and more into other various stories of multiple genres. No matter if it was horror, or romance, or even fantasy, he liked any world he dared to step his little toe into.

Many thought him silly, but he was just simply fascinated with the worlds and magic that books could create for him. Books were not ashamed to lay themselves at his feet and give him all they had to offer. They were there to provide, and he was always left satisfied.

Ethan wanted to reach up to that level of writing skill. To write stories that spoke to people’s hearts and minds the same way it did with his. He wanted to tell of tales no one but he could create.

He stared at his computer screen, taking in each and every word that had been typed out. Society had always told him that only an idiot with too much free time would take a moment out of their lives to read one of his stories. And maybe they were right, but that did not stop Ethan from putting the words together on paper.

Even if no one was going to see his work Ethan was happy enough to keep it to himself for now. He pressed down on the little green button that shut off the router, and crawled over to hide himself in the sheets of his bed. The moonlight reflecting off his window shined through like a spotlight of glittery white dust as he drifted of to sleep.

 

 “Ethan, it’s Tuesday! Take out the trash before you leave for school!”

The loud croaking yelp of his mother’s voice caused him to jerk awake from his death like slumber. His eyes strained and struggled to refocus as he was met with direct rays of sunlight coming in from the small window beside his bed.

Trash Day = Tuesday.

Tuesday = Another 7 hours spent in what is quite literally Hell on earth.

He cranked his head to the side and looked over to the clock on his nightstand. 6:45AM. Ethan wasn't exactly a morning person, but he knew there'd be no point in staying in bed for much longer. For if he did his mother would only grow angry and march up the stairs like a wild grizzly bear to drag him out from under the sheets.

Stretching his body in twisted angles, his back and arms popped as he yawned. He sat there for a minute trying to push himself out of bed. He was in no mood to go to school, nor was he in any mood to stay awake, but he knew if he didn't pay attention now it’d be a real pain in his ass when report cards came out later on in the year.

Ethan decided that, at some point today, he would find a way to take a nap. If he was lucky, maybe he would be able sneak a 30 minute power nap during old lady Bramble’s 4th period science class. Mrs. Bramble was a bent up old crow of a woman who had the sight of a newborn bat, but her hearing was extraordinary. You couldn't even whisper without her calling you out for disrupting her lesson.

For that very reason, many of the Empty Heads held their tongues when she irritated them for skipping class, threatened to write them referrals, or wrote them up for being a nuisance.

Ethan did not associate with those people and refused to be caught getting on their level. Mrs. Bramble liked him for being one of the only quiet and respectful people in her class, so he figured she wouldn't mind if he took a light snooze.

With two full bags of empty beer bottles and pizza scraps he dragged himself outside to throw them at the curb. He let out a chocked breath of air as he set down the heavy weights and that’s when he felt something peculiarly sticky on his hands. There must have been some alcohol residue left on one of the bags because when he pulled his palm up to his nose to smell it he retched and scrunched his face into a twisted look of disgust. The air was so thick and foggy he felt he could bite down and rip a chunk of it from the atmosphere. It was a feeling that suffocated him, but he stared down the street ignoring the squeezing feeling in his throat. Nothing could be seen past the low fog except for the trunks of trees and the beat up wooden fence lining his neighbors lawn.

In the distance, Ethan could hear the faint sounds of a bicycle bell and that was his cue to dash back inside before he was caught.

He ran back through the front door and slammed it shut, sliding his body down to the floor until he caught his breath. His mother began cursing at him for slamming the door, but he did not care at the moment. Once he was calmed down he shot up immediately and looked through the small peephole until he could see the last place where he was standing. 

Standing there in the fog with his backwards blue baseball cap and brown messenger bag was Phil Adams.

He was the mail boy since no real one would ever step foot into the neighborhood, and he was what Ethan liked to describe as “a real douchebag.” Sure, Phil would smile cheerfully when asked if he would bring someones mail to the door for them, but that was just a mask to cover up what a real jackass he was.

Phil knew of Ethan’s love for writing and found it extremely moronic. Only an idiot would waste their time writing things no one in this generation would read. Because of this, Phil found it amusing to taunt him whenever he spotted him.

“Bookworm!”

“Poet Boy!”

“Loner!”

“Know it All!”

These were Phil’s most common insults that Ethan had grown to somewhat tolerate over the years. He awaited the day for when his enemies could come up with better insults. It didn't just stop at name calling, however. If Phil was ever feeling particularly douche-y he’d go as far as taking his books to remove the bookmark, or rip out the pages until the book was nothing more than the cardboard covering. Ethan had no way of fighting back. He’s not what you would call physically strong. Puberty did not grant him with sudden manly powers and strength. On top of all that Phil was on the baseball team, and could easily slam him against the ground in seconds flat. A situation he did his best to avoid.

The large, bulky silhouette looked around the front lawn for a bit before throwing the rolled up stack of papers into one of the bushes nearby and taking off on their bike. Ethan breathed a sigh of relief and held a shaky hand to his chest. His heart was racing a million miles a minute, despite knowing full well his coast was clear.

He’d escaped an early morning torture he was did not want to go through.


	2. Fighters

On the long list of things Ethan wasn’t on good terms with hallways ranked number two right behind the Empty Heads.

The hallways of his high school were similar to the ones you’d find in nightmare. It was long, crowded, thin, and just too loud. If he wasn't bumping into the more muscular jock boys, or getting stuck walking three steps a minute behind Fat Albert, he was being pushed into lockers. Wether it was by accident or on purpose, he was always being rammed against those giant blocks of deteriorating red metal. The cold burn of the metal would paralyze his skin each time he came into contact with it.

He trudged himself through the halls, books swaying to and fro in his arms. He had come to school pretty late and only had about three minutes before he was late to Mr. Crow’s english class. He did his best to dodge the kids who felt that they could stop in the middle of the hallways to talk, not taking into account that people were trying to get by them. He turned the corner and bursted into the room, causing the door to bang like a lightning strike against the near wall. A large group of eyes, including Mr. Crow’s, rested themselves upon him and he felt the cold sweat beading down his forehead.

Ethan did not move from his spot. His body became paralyzed due to the stares he’d received and before he had a chance to apologize the bell rang. Mr. Crow shook his head and pointed towards his desk that sat in the very front of the room. “Sit down, Mr. Moore.”

Swallowing the cotton lump that sat burrowed in his throat, Ethan made his way to his desk and sat down. Once his rear came into contact with the chair he slouched down and let out the breath he had been holding since the moment he entered the room. He could still feel the pairs of eyes burning a print onto the back of his head, and felt uneasiness crawl up his spine. _Stop looking at me…_

After a few moments of silence, Mr. Crow stood up and began writing words on the blackboard behind his desk. The dragging sound of chalk on slate sounded like nails scratching against the surface of glass, and it made Ethan’s ears scream in agony. He wanted so badly to snatch the chalk away from him, but he kept himself attached to his seat.  He didn’t know why he was feeling this way, but he tried to ignore it. He figured it could've just been morning jitters, or that he just didn't like the sound of chalk on board. Maybe it was because he was still shaken up about missing Phil this morning,  
or the fact he was late.

He just couldn't figure it out.

The horrid sound ended as soon as it began and Mr. Crow pointed towards what he’d written. _Theme_.

“Today were going to have you guys be the teachers. Before we get started officially, can anyone tell me what “theme” is?”

“We learned this already, Mr. Crow. That’s in our other notes.” A girl, who was currently on her phone, called out. Mr. Crow turned to her and tried his best keep himself calm by  
flashing her a fake toothy smile.

“If we’ve learned it already, then you all should know it now by heart. Unfortunately, not a lot of you do, so we’re refreshing our memory,” he said. “Now can anybody  
answer the question?”

The kids around him began to babble on about things that were completely unrelated to the question and it left Mr. Crow shaking his head in a fit of disappointment. Ethan could feel his frustration clearly from where he sat and sighed heavily before raising his hand.

“Theme is the setting or the topic of a persons thoughts, an exhibition, or a piece of writing.”

A smile formed on Mr. Crow’s face, delighted that somebody was actually smarter than a blue crayon, and began writing Ethan’s answer next to the word. “Very good, Mr. Moore.  
Though, I’m not really surprised. Good work.” Ethan felt a small smile creep itself onto his face. The feeling of happiness from being praised didn't make much sense to him since he was the only one  
who ever answered these kinds of questions, but he liked in nonetheless.

His moment of bliss was quickly ended, however, when he felt something light, but pointy, bounce off the back of his head. He heard the soft sounds of something being crumpled and a small paper ball fell onto his desk. He stared at it for a moment in confused silence before squinting his eyes in annoyance. He knew exactly who threw this and, not even a second later, said person’s voice piped  
up from behind his back.

“Of course Mr. C ain’t surprised. Book nerd here would take the time out of his miserable life to learn this useless crap.”

The voice was as loud as an elephant, but deeper than a bottomless pit. It made Ethan want to shove a cork down the never ending hole just so he’d never have to listen to its horrendous sounds again. Ethan turned his head, staring angrily into the face of Phil’s second in command man, Jackson Reed.

Jackson was bigger, even bulkier than Phil, and was just as much of a jackass as he was. Ethan could tell from the moment he saw them together why they got along so well. Zits of all sizes and shades of red covered his pale skin, and his hair was a messy black nest of death. His long muscular legs were crossed on top of the desk as he shot Ethan a sideways smirk that made his blood boil. That boiling anger crept its way up from his feet to his stomach when Jackson began to bawl up another scrap of paper before launching it at him.

Ethan was able to dodge it by leaning to the left, but that only made Jackson laugh in response. His laugh sounded like a dying cheetah on drugs, and it made his ears scream in more pain than the chalk had. Ethan wanted to just run up to him, tackle him, and paste duck tape over his big, fat mouth.

“What’re you looking at, Poet Boy? You attracted to me or something? Sorry, but I don’t swing that way.” Jackson said, fake kindness sprinkling itself in layers over his tongue  
and Ethan felt the anger continue to rise from his stomach to his throat. His fist began to shake and he could feel the tips of his nails dig into his skin.

Steam was practically pouring waterfalls out of his ears as he silently vented in his chair. He choked out a sour laugh and picked up the paper ball that was still sitting on his desk. Turning his head back to Jackson he smiled, gripping the ball with the smallest amount of force he could muster without crushing it in his palm.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Jacky, but even if I was interested in you I’d be mad at myself for having such poor taste.”

And with that he threw the paper ball back to him. It hit the other boy square in the forehead, but he did not flinch. He didn't even make an attempt at a snide comeback. Jackson’s eyes were practically the size of tennis balls as he stared blankly passed him into the nothing. Ethan turned around in his seat and felt another wave of victorious bliss course through his body.

 

Ah, lunchrooms! A place where stomachs get destroyed and childhood wishes die. How people managed to hold down this garbage they called food was beyond his understanding.

Ethan did his best to avoid getting school lunch since he had no idea what those crazy women running the kitchen were throwing in there. They could've been mixing in rat poison and dog meat for all he knew, and he wasn't about to risk himself dying in a crowded lunchroom with a bunch of people he hated with a passion.

On the menu for todays lunch was spaghetti and meatballs, which looked more like yellow play doh strings with runny red paint and used charcoal. Luckily for Ethan, he’d packed his own lunchbox. There wasn't much in there, however. Just a turkey sandwich and bottled water. He knew just that wouldn't satisfy him for long, and he figured he would’ve packed more if he hadn't had to rush out the door that morning. But this would have to do.

Ethan made his way along side the growing line of kids to try and find a place to sit down. On the rare occasions he would find a seat it was more than likely the abandoned picnic table that sat untouched at the back of the lunchroom. It was covered in cobwebs and for some odd reason it was always damp, as if it had been brought in from soaking for hours in the rain. A long few minutes passed before Ethan realized it was useless trying to find anywhere to sit. He figured it was a good thing he couldn't find a place to eat. The lunchroom was much too loud for his sensitive ears to handle. Besides that, Ethan would've rather sat in a barn with snorting pigs and mooing cows than a room filled with steroid fueled jocks and slutty girls just looking for five minute hookups.

If anything, he felt like skipping lunch all together to go read a book in an empty storage closet for a while. With that idea in mind, he made his way to the lunchroom’s exist doors trying to ignore the rank funk coming from the hundreds of spaghetti filled trays around him. The fact that people could stomach crap like that really made him think they were not humans.

“Hey, Poet boy!” A voice shouted from behind him.

Before Ethan had a chance to turn around his face met the cold, tiled floors of the lunchroom with a hard thud. His brain scrambled like a salt shaker against the walls of his skull, causing his vision to blur for a mere few seconds. The shock from the sudden impact coursed through him and when he lifted his eyes to find the source he saw Phil’s tall and muscly figure standing above him, an evil smile displaying itself on his features.

Ethan’s blood ran cold.

“Hey there, Moore,” Phil greeted him, words as smooth as water but masked by a large layer of litter. “It’s a shame I missed ya this mornin’, but I guess that didn't stop you from getting smart, huh?”

Ethan attempted to lift himself up, but Phil kicked him back down with the toe of his large boots. It left a mud stain on Ethan shirt and he did his best to contain himself. “I don't know what you're talking about, Phil.” He said with the largest amount of bravery he could muster.

Phil choked on his laughter and after calming himself he stomped his foot down on Ethan’s ankle. Ethan yelped in pain and backed away from Phil until he was at a safe distance. Luckily his ankle wasn’t broken, but the impact from Phil’s stomp would definitely leave a bruise. It was only then that he realize the air around him was silent and deadly. Phil’s gang of giants were gathered behind him, Jackson smiling snidely with his arms crossed next to Phil. When had they gotten there? The other students around him all had their eyes locked on him and Phil, waiting for what would happen next. Who was going to make the next move?

“I heard you decided to get cocky with my boy Jack, here. You know what I do to wimps who get smart… right Moore?” Phil asked, tone deep and colder than a freshly formed iceberg.

Ethan sat there and tried to contemplate what his next move would be. Would he fight Phil and his gaggle of sabertooth monsters, or would he run for his life in an attempt to escape? Both options were risky and sweat beaded down his forehead. Using every working braincell that still ran through his head he went with the most rational solution.

He looked at the lunchbox in his hands, praying for it to be a good enough distraction, and launched it at the gang before taking off.

His feet felt like 10 pound weights attached to his legs as he scrambled out of the lunchroom and down the halls. He dashed down the long corridors feeling the adrenaline course through his veins. He could hear shouting and heavy footsteps behind his back, and that only made him run faster. Ethan’s heart began beating against his ribcage like a prison inmate begging for release. He knew damn well if he let himself stop now he was as good as dead, so as soon as he saw the sigh labeled “boys” he slide inside and made a beeline for the closest stall.

He locked himself in, accidentally banging the lock against the steel doors. The sound was so loud it echoed throughout his body and all he could do was pray to God that they didn't hear him fumbling around for safety. Climbing on top of the seat, which was covered in what he hoped was toilet water, he attempted to catch his breath. The effort was futile, however, his body would not let him calm down no matter how deep he breathed.

Ethan wasn’t just scared, oh no, he was completely terrified. His heart beat hard against his chest. He felt as if at any moment it would explode like a water balloon and gush out of him like a waterfall of horror. When he heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom his breath hitched in his throat. Sweat dripped like rain from his forehead, causing his bangs to stick to his forehead. He could taste the salt on his tongue as the foot steps got closer and closer until finally… they just stopped.

“I know you're in here, Poet boy. How about you do us a favor and just come out?”

Phil’s deep and somber tone echoed off the brick walls of the bathroom and made Ethan’s fear grow a million times stronger than before. He couldn't let them know he was in there. He had to survive through this and make it out alive.

He just had to!

“You’re really starting to annoy me, Moore. I don't got time for you shit, so stop acting like the little bitch and come out.”

Phil began to walk down the stall isles, banging his fists against them roughly. Ethan stiffened up in an attempt to not make a sound, knowing this was Phil’s way of sniffing him out. When Phil’s feet were visible from under the cut out square of his stall he felt so sick to his stomach he wanted to vomit. Ethan swallowed the built of saliva ball that had formed in his mouth and his legs began to shake from the crouching position he was in. He begged his body internally to cope with him for just a bit longer. After a few moments of deadly silence Ethan could hear Phil sigh heavily in defeat from the other side of the door. “He probably ain’t in here, Phil,” an unfamiliar voice said. A few hums of agreement followed and Phil sighed once more.

“Fine. Guess we’ll try one of the storage closets,” he said and began walking away from the stall. A number of footsteps followed behind him and wave of relief practically knocked Ethan off the toilet seat. They hadn’t noticed him.

He was safe.

He let out the breath that had been burrowing itself deep in his lungs and stepped one foot down from the toilet seat. It was then he realized that he had just made one of the worst decisions in his life.

A pair of hands grabbed onto him, gripping onto his ankle firmly, and began pulling at him. Ethan whipped his head around, eyes wide in shock as he stared down at the hands that gripped him. His heart began to race once more and he grabbed onto the back of the toiler seat. It was like a scene straight out of a zombie movie, except he didn't want to sit there and let himself be taken. He shrieked in terror when the hands began to pull at him and he tried his best to yank his leg free with all the energy he still had left, but the person’s grip was much stronger than his. With another hard tug the hands were able to pull him off the stool and out from under the bathroom stall.

Ethan only had time to let out chocked cry for help before a shower of punches rained down on him. Phil placed himself on his stomach, knocking the air completely out of his lungs. How much did this man weigh? Before he had time to think Phil began wailing away at him, hitting him in the face like an angry gorilla while his buddies were busy kicking away of his sides. With each blow, Ethan could feel his skin cave in more and more. He felt like he was being hit by a million plastic bats. The same ones you'd use while hitting a piñata at a birthday party. Phil’s gang stopped their kicking and began to scratch at Ethan’s legs and arms. It felt like a bundle of angry cats were clawing away at him. Ethan could feel his skin break open from the scratches and warm blood dripped down from them. It made him twitch like a dead rat and tears welled up in his eyes and fell to the side till they wetted his ears.

He was barely given time to raise his arms up in defense when Phil pulled out a small pocket knife and held it towards his throat. The smile on Phil’s face was toothy, his eyes were wide and practically bloodshot. He looked like a serial killer ready to finish off his victim, and it sent a shiver down Ethan’s aching spine.

It was in this moment that Ethan really felt like he was about to die. Phil pushed down on the blade until Ethan could feel the stinging sensation of a cut being made onto his skin. The air caused insult to injury as it buried itself into his new open wound and he hissed in response. It felt almost like Phil had given him a paper cut. Phil pushed down harder, but Ethan didn't try to fight it.

Despite being afraid of dying he knew Phil would not hesitate to finish his job if he decided to start struggling. Even if he did manage to break free he knew he would quickly be taken down by the rest of Phil’s gang, and he wasn't about to risk that outcome. If this was where he was meant to die he wasn't going to try an change it. Perhaps sensing his sudden relaxed nature, Phil lifted the weight of the blade off his neck and stared down at him. His puzzled look caused Ethan to giggle a bit from beneath him, but not as if he was amused. It took Phil a minute of processing his reaction to realize… Ethan was accepting his death.

This caused Phil’s emotions to change from confused to slightly offended.

“What’re you laughing at Moore?” He grunted.   Ethan looked up at him and smiled. His lip quivered from the pain in his face, but he manage to keep the grin there. “I was just thinking of all the times you could've ended me. All the times you could've taken my life with no feeling in your heart, and yet you sit there with a drawn blade unable to finish the job.”

Phil snarled. “Are you mocking me?”

“Is it obvious?” Ethan answered.

Phil snickered and lifted himself off his chest. Air found its way back into Ethan lungs as he was finally able to breath again. Ethan stared up at Phil, his left eye swollen shut and his right eye straining to keep its focus on him. He waited for Phil to kick him back down or send one of his pals to do it, but nothing ever came.

Phil spat at his feet and eyed him for a few seconds longer, not saying a word. He made a signal with his hand and the group of other men followed behind him out of the bathroom. Ethan grabbed onto the stall door’s handle, struggling to lift himself up onto his swollen feet. He didn't look into the mirror to examine his injuries, nor did he check to see if the cut in his throat was deep. To him it didn't matter.

Once he was able to steady himself he too made his way out of the bathroom and down the long hallways he had grown to despise so much.


End file.
